


Nineteen

by El Staplador (elstaplador)



Category: Once and Never Again - The Long Blondes
Genre: F/F, Jukebox Fest, PWP, Sex at work, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:19:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1818265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elstaplador/pseuds/El%20Staplador
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Come back with me, and find out what you really want</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nineteen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thursday_Next](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thursday_Next/gifts).



He was meant to come and pick me up after work. He didn't. The pub emptied, and the cars lurched off into the night, and he never came. I wasn't even surprised. I just wished Anna hadn't come out on a fag break when I was out there, sitting on the sign that said DELIVERIES ONLY, waiting half an hour after closing time, after it was obvious he wasn't going to come.

She wasn't impressed to see me still there. She knew who I was waiting for, too. 'You're only nineteen, for God's sake.' Talk about a supportive supervisor.

I knew I was scowling. 'What's that got to do with anything? You're forty-one, and it doesn't make a blind bit of difference. Life's still grim.'

She took a long drag on her cigarette. 'Forty-two, actually. And I'm just saying. You don't need a boyfriend.'

I pretended I wasn't crying. 'I never said I did. It was just nice when I thought I had one.'

'Whatever. As they say. Are you going to put a plaster on that?' She jabbed her eyes sideways at the cut in my wrist.

'Obviously not,' I said. 'Or I'd have done it before I came out.'

She finished her cigarette and ground the butt into the gravel. 'Come back in,' she said. 'At least let me patch you up. I'm not having you dying of blood poisoning on my shift.'

I could have argued, but it was less trouble to follow her. 'Fine, fine.'

'And he's not worth it,' she said over her shoulder.

'Isn't worth what?'

She didn't answer that. She made me sit down on a bar stool and laid my forearm out along a towel. 'I'll chuck this one when we're done,' she said. She cleaned the blood off with TCP, rubbing harder than I thought she needed to, and stuck a huge blue plaster over the cut.

'It wasn't that big,' I said.

'I'm just saying,' she said, 'you don't need a boyfriend. You really don't need one who does this to you.'

If she could be cryptic, then I could play along. 'What don't I need a boyfriend for?'

She looked me straight in the eye. 'Don't think I don't remember what it's like. And you're wrong. It's much better at forty-two.'

'Really,' I said.

'Really. I could show you a thing or two.'

My stomach lurched. 'Go on, then,' I mumbled. 'Show me.'

Her eyes narrowed. She hadn't expected that. 'If you're serious... Help me lock up, then, and I will.'

God, she was a slave-driver. She made me scrub the sinks out and empty the glass washer while she went round drawing the curtains and locking the doors. I watched her out of the corner of my eye and wondered what I was letting myself in for. Don't get me wrong: I know exactly what a lock-in alone with one other person means, but I was questioning my own motivation. Was I trying to get back at the scumbag? Was I just experimenting? Was I tired and confused? Was it simply that someone had offered to show me a good time – and actually looked like they were prepared to make good on the offer?

Anna was sitting at the bar – on the public side – waiting for me. 'Right,' she said, as I sat down. 'Let's make certain things clear while you're still stone cold sober. I intend to show you why you don't need a boyfriend, that everything your boyfriend gives you, you can get elsewhere. It's likely to include alcohol and sex. Maybe other things. Are you up for all of that? If not, no hard feelings, and I'll drop you home.'

I breathed, 'Fuck, yes.'

'Good. Next: I don't usually shag my staff. This is an exception, and it's going to stay that way. We never mention it again, and if you do your job's gone. I'll give you a reference, but I'm not having it common gossip. Understood?'

'Understood.' I wished she would just get on with it. I couldn't look away from her. Those icy blue eyes were piercing right through me.

She nodded. 'Fine. Where was he going to take you tonight?'

I shrugged my shoulders. 'There wasn't a plan. I guess it would have been Cockpit.'

'Good God, really? The Pit of Cock itself?' She shuddered. I could tell she was putting it on, and I bristled. 'Go on, then. What's the best thing about Cockpit?'

'The music,' I said, too quickly.

'No, it isn't. The music's shit. Always has been. The décor's OK, and the drinks are decent when they've not got a rush on. I can do better, though.' She slid off the stool, and fiddled with the light switches until everywhere but the bar was in pitch darkness. Then she came back, stood behind the bar this time. 'Now. What does he get you? He doesn't, does he?'

'He does,' I protested. 'A Cosmo, usually.'

'Do you like them?'

I couldn't really remember. 'I guess...'

'Care to try something different? The bar is yours.' She stretched her arms wide, and I watched what that did to her breasts.

'Anything I want?' I barely waited for her nod before I said, 'Champagne, then.'

She laughed. 'Nice one. I have to admit, nobody had yet bought me champagne when I was nineteen.'

'Well, then,' I said, as if that proved anything.

'I'll have to get a bottle out of the cellar, though. One sec.' She was gone. A chilly draught came up from the open hatch, and I shivered, hugged my arms to my chest. I could feel my nipples; they had gone painfully hard.

She came back with a bottle and grabbed a bucket from under the bar, then poured ice into it, and jammed the bottle into that.

'Fridge?' I suggested.

She was shocked. 'No – it kills it stone dead. Always ice.' Swiftly, delicately, she pulled two flutes down from the highest shelf, looked at them critically, and put them down on the bar. 'Now...' she said.

'It's going to need time to chill,' I observed, trying to be detached.

I was flirting back, and she liked that. 'So it is. Any ideas what to do while we wait?'

'You were going to show me. What's the point of your being the older woman if I have to have all the ideas?'

'Less of your cheek,' she snapped. For a moment I thought she was going to slap me; I realised that I half-wanted her to. But she was smiling. 'Do I take it that you're absolutely in my hands, then?'

'You've got me locked in here,' I pointed out.

'That,' she said, 'is a very good point.' She picked up a couple of ice cubes, and came back to my side of the bar. I held my breath. She brought her hand up to my throat. I couldn't help gasping at the sudden chill. Languorously, she dragged it down my breastbone, then up again, round the back of my neck. I could feel the wet coldness trickle down my spine.

She let the ice cubes fall, took each of my hands and laid them flat on the bar behind me. 'Don't move,' she murmured, her voice silken.

'I wouldn't dare...'

She came right up close to me then, put her left knee between my legs. 'I mean it,' she said. She undid the buttons of my blouse, quick and efficient. 'That's not a uniform bra.'

'I didn't know we had them.'

'You do now. It's going to have to go. Hands!'

Startled, I raised them. She slipped my blouse off, then reached behind and undid my bra. Her breath was warm and I leaned forward into her.

She put my hands back on the bar, laid hers firmly over the top. 'God,' she said, 'you're gorgeous. There's that to be said for being nineteen, at least.'

'He never tells me that,' I admitted.

'He doesn't? The little chickenshit. You are.' She kissed me, hard.

'Do you think you'd better check that the rest of my underwear is... regulation?' I murmured, as she broke away.

'You've a lot to learn about the chain of command here,' she said. ' _I'll_ decide when your uniform needs checking.'

'I'd like it to be soon,' I begged.

'If you insist.' She slid a hand up my skirt, parted my legs, and I gasped with pleasure and anticipation.

But she shook her head. 'Upstairs.'

I started to protest; then I understood. 'Oh, my God, yes.'

She stepped backwards. For a moment, she was Anna, scary boss from hell, again. But her eyes were wide, and I could see that she wanted me just as much as I wanted her. 'You've too many clothes on,' I told her.

She raised an eyebrow at me, and she stripped, with an efficient grace that was incredibly sexy: kicked off her shoes, unbuttoned her shirt and tossed it behind her, lost the trousers, the bra, the knickers. I watched her from my stool, knowing that this was my last chance to say _no_.

I didn't.

I followed her.

I'd never been upstairs before, never seen Anna's private rooms. They were almost aggressively tidy; the bed was a vast white square. She showed me in, closed the door behind us, and then, kissing me, slid my skirt down to the floor, and my knickers after it. 'One last chance,' she said. 'Are you sure about this?'

'Yes,' I said, 'please, yes.'

'Then lie down.'

The sheet was cool under me. She thought I was gorgeous? Well, I thought she was amazing. All I wanted was to have her there between my legs forever, that blonde hair soft against my thighs, those gentle, probing fingers, that tongue – oh, that tongue - I came, sobbing, like I'd never done before.

'Now,' she said, 'that champagne, and then I'll show you some other things.'

  
We never spoke of it. Not in working hours, at least. Somehow, though, I never managed to be out at the deliveries entrance in time to meet that boyfriend I had once. Somehow I found myself waking up in Anna's bed after every late shift. Somehow, I never complained about that.


End file.
